Brotherhood Saga 03: Death

by Kody Boye

  “It’s sad,” Odin said. “To have to be unsure whether or not you’ll be able to be accepted.”

  “Do you fear that, my friend?”

  “I fear that my adoptive father will think unkindly of me, though I don’t think he will. My king, though... I can’t necessarily be sure. I would like to think he’d be accepting, but...”

  “You’re not aware if he will or not,” Virgin finished. Odin nodded. “That’s perfectly understandable.”

  “Do you think so, Virgin?”

  “I do.”

  “So you don’t think my worries are unwarranted?”

  “Of course not. You as well as anyone should be aware of what it is that stands in your world, and I, as your companion and partner, will be one to reciprocate that, no matter what it is that seems to come in your way.”

  “And you’d be fine with that?” Odin asked. “Even if it meant having to lie or be discreet?”

  “I will not lie that I am attracted to the same sex, no, but I will lie about who it is I sleep with.”

  “All right.”

  “You’re comfortable with that?”

  “I just want you to be happy,” Odin said. “Not that I’ll be happy about having to hide my feelings about you, but if I have to, I will.”

  “You must do what you or your kind feels is right for your kingdom and people. There is nothing more you can do about that.”

  Of course, Odin thought, were he wanting to be truly upfront, he would say that there were things he could do—rant, rave, cry, scream, and belittle the man he served. That, though, would get him nowhere, so if he were to really remain within the king’s service and continue to be his champion, there would come with it sacrifices that he had anticipated all along, even back to his days as a boy when he was first training to become the knight he would never become.

  Everything will work out in its own way, Odin thought, letting out the slightest sigh.

  As he continued eating his biscuit, he couldn’t help but wonder what he would have to hide within the coming weeks.

  The road that bridged the towns of Bohren and Ke’Tarka wound around the Liar’s Forest came into view within the following days. Covered in snow and appearing to be anything but welcoming, it took little to recognize that the dangerous weather conditions only progressively worsened the closer they went north.

  “Well,” Odin said, raising his hand and waving it in the air. “This is it.”

  “What?”

  “Ke’Tarka. The road from there leads to Dwaydor, then from there to Ornala and the smaller towns to the east and west of it.”

  “The Gold Crown,” Virgin remarked.

  “Right,” Odin replied. “I guess the question for you is... do you want to stay in Ke’Tarka for a night or two, or would you rather just keep going?”

  “Our horses could do with some rest,” the Halfing said, adjusting himself in his saddle and reaching back to scratch his neck. “Don’t you think?”

  “I think they would, yes.”

  And I think I could do without some shitty weather for a day or so, he thought, offering a nod as Virgin tapped his horse’s ribs and beckoned them forward.

  “Tell me about this place,” Virgin said.

  “You mean Ke’Tarka?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Well... back in the old days, possibly before even Ornala was built or was being built, the town was set up to bridge Bohren and Dwaydor together for supply runs. So... in that regard, I guess you could say that it’s more of a settlement than anything.”

  “What would one do there?”

  “There’s a library. I know that much.”

  “Have you ever been there?”

  “No.”

  “Not even on the way to and from Bohren? You said your friend lived there, didn’t you?”

  “Well, yeah—we stopped there, once or twice, but I’ve never actually been around the city.”

  “Now’s any time than never,” Virgin mused.

  With a short nod, Odin licked his lips and freed them of the frost covering their surfaces, sighing when the cold moisture seeped into his mouth.

  You’re getting closer, he thought.

  Though he had no idea whether or not the three armies would be stationing themselves in Dwaydor once they returned from Denyon, he knew that he was likely to find at least one of his friends there—Ramya himself a distinct possibility: the healer, whom had so stringently trained him in the art of preservation and who, regardless of his ethnicity, had welcomed him with an open arm and mind. To think that a Germanian would have ever had reason to travel to Ornala when in such dire states was a miracle unto itself, but Odin couldn’t necessarily blame him—at least not because there seemed little safety within the Kadarack itself.

  Always warring, Odin mused. Always unsure of whether or not the water hole will stay filled for another year.

  A slight movement to his left drew him out of his thought.

  Odin raised his head.

  Virgin offered a smile beneath the shadow of his hood. “Sorry,” he said. “I didn’t know you were thinking.”

  “It’s all right,” Odin said, offering a smile in return. “Don’t worry about it.”

  “What might you be thinking about?”

  “A friend who might still be in Dwaydor.”

  “One of the ones left behind, I take it?”

  “One of the healers tending to the wounded. He’s a black man.”

  “Kadarian,” Virgin smiled.

  “Have you ever met one?”

  “I have never been so far north, my friend.”

  “Are there ever any within the capital? Lesliana?”

  “So far as I’ve heard, no. And let me tell you—if there had been a Kadarian in the capital word surely would have spread.”

  “Just because you don’t see many black men so far south?”

  “We hardly see any men so far south.”

  “What did the Elves think of your father when he signed on to be an outpost guard? Come to think of it, what did they think of you?”

  “They considered me something of an... oddity,” Virgin said, pushing his shoulders back and straightening his posture. “There were lots of smiles... wary glances... unsure voices whenever I made my way up and down the roads with my father. It was as if I were a fleeting figure in the night—something to be looked upon and spoken of, but nothing to ever be concretely thought of.”

  “Did they accept you?”

  “They had to. I was, of course, an outpost guard’s son, so they considered me nothing less than that all the way through my childhood and into my teenage years. It was my father who brought me along on one of his shifts and taught me how to use a bow.”

  “You’re an impressive shot,” Odin said. “I saw you take down the Harpies.”

  “They say all Elves have a natural ability with the bow. Whether or not that’s true I can’t be sure, but given the fact that there are those magically-dumb within our society, I would hardly think that the same would happen with archery, but I’m not one to say such a thing, considering I’m a Halfing and all.”

  “You have every right to voice your opinion. You’re more of an Elf than I’ll ever be.”

  “In some eyes, no, I’m not. To the people I grew up with, they would consider you nothing more than a prodigy, given your magical talent and all.”

  “I was taught.”

  “As was I, but I was never able to summon the Will, not even when I stood before one of the high mages in Lesliana and was asked to reveal my Will to them.”

  Frowning, Odin reached down to tangle his hand within his mount’s mane, all the more unsure what to say at that moment than any that had led to that brief testament. Would he, as a child, have been able to demonstrate his magical ability to a court of magicians—mages who, by all definitions, knew almost everything there was to know about magic—or would he have been stumped as well? Either way, it didn’t necessarily matter, especially not in his circumstance,
but he couldn’t help but wonder if that would have been true given the case.

  “How old were you,” Odin started, “when they asked you to perform in front of the court?”

  “Five, I believe.”

  “They deemed you... well, dumb, if you don’t mind me saying?”

  “I don’t mind you saying so, no. And yes—they deemed me dumb, though I’ve always been of the belief that it’s because of my human blood that I wasn’t blessed with the Gift.”

  “But you didn’t want it.”

  “No. Of course not. Why would I?”

  “For protection.”

  “I know how to protect myself better than most mages do,” Virgin said. “Besides—if what happened between the two of us before... well, everything... was any indication, then I can damn well say that I’m not worried about being blown to pieces while I have my back turned.”

  “You have a point there,” Odin chuckled.

  “Exactly,” Virgin replied, raising his head as Ke’Tarka appeared in the near distance. “You’re fine with staying a day or so?”

  “Of course,” Odin said. “Why?”

  “Because I want some good food and some good sleep.”

  Ke’Tarka was, in all appearances, a town much like Odin had expected—constructed, it seemed, by the wood from the Liar’s Forest and bordered by watch towers of the same kind. However, unlike Harpie’s Summit—in which the towers had been lit by flame and beckoned to any who happened to be upon the horizon—the towers that bordered Ke’Tarka’s township were constructed merely with the idea of watching in mind. They stood much higher than Odin had ever anticipated and seemed to have only one base pillar with a few brief planks of wood over it, likely to keep the elements off the tower and to protect and keep the guards from falling off.

  “Is any of this familiar to you?” Odin asked, turning his eyes on Virgin as they progressed toward the city.

  “The outpost I grew up in was similar to this,” the Halfling replied. “Although the buildings were mostly built from the trees, and the towers themselves were usually bridged between one another and cut from the insides of trunks to look into the distance.”

  “I would have loved to see where you grew up.”

  “There was nothing extraordinary about it. It was beautiful, to be sure, and nothing like what I’ve seen of the human land so far, but after a while everything becomes... well, the same—simple, stoic, boring. Monotonous.”

  Monotonous? Odin thought, a smile curving his lips. What a word to come out of your mouth.

  After resisting the urge to laugh, Odin pushed his head away from the smaller pleasantries and focused his attention in front of them.

  As they continued into the outpost, progressively making their way down the street and toward what appeared to be the only primary boarding establishment in the area, Odin tried not to think of Felnon and how long it had been since he’d been home. Being so close to the Liar’s Forest, it seemed he were back in the place he’d been born—ever so distant and away from the place he truly knew as his one and only, but ever so close and personable.

  At the front of the establishment, they both dismounted and looked in the windows, where inside a few men of the burly and bearded variety sat talking to one another and the occasional barmaid passed with mead or other drink.

  “Do we just leave our horses?” Odin asked. “Or—”

  The door opened. A stable boy stepped out. “Hello,” the young man said, raising his copper-colored eyes and peering at the two of them through his sheen of blonde hair. “Are the two of you staying the night?”

  “Two, yes,” Virgin said.

  “I’ll take your horses.”

  “Thank you,” Odin smiled, offering the boy two copper pieces.

  After making sure the young man secured their mounts, they entered the inn and made their way to the bar—were, behind the counter, a pretty young barmaid who couldn’t have been more than sixteen offered a sweet smile and asked what they wanted.

  “We’d like a room to start,” Virgin said, reaching into his money bag to pull out ten copper pieces. “We’ll come down for dinner later in the evening.”

  “We can do that,” the barmaid said, sliding the money into her palm before turning and docking the entry on a leather-bound book. “Would you gentlemen like to be summoned when dinner is served later, or you like to come down on your own?”

  “Having a warning would be nice,” Odin said. “If you could, anyway.”

  “We can have John our stable hand come to your room once the food is ready.” The barmaid reached up to a rack of keys and trailed her fingers along the numbers above them before pulling a set from its place on the wall. “Here you are, gentlemen. Rest easy knowing you’re now in safe quarters.”

  No kidding, Odin thought, accepting the key as the young woman offered it.

  With little more than a second glance, the two of them turned and made their way up the stairs.

  Darkness greeted them soon after they settled into the room, prompting Odin to light the tip of a candle with his magicked finger. White light spooled from the burning wick and cast the room in shadows fit for something related to the darker side—something short, closeted, and resembling something of a rat hunched over in the night.

  As Virgin left the room to get the food, Odin’s eyes strayed to the bag that had been on his companion’s shoulder for the first time in weeks.

  It’s there, his conscience whispered.

  The book, his life, his progeny, his reason for existing and his sole intent toward his future—it could be called many things, but something it could not be called was a waste, as he had not discovered and stolen it without intent. It was, as many would have seemed fit to call it, a proper steal: a thing that, though dark and foreboding, had taken a great amount of determination to even try to think about taking, let alone actually secure and walk out the door with it. That alone was enough to swell his mind with pride at the thought of pulling it out of the pack—to stroke, with his fingers, its blood-stained, leather-bound surface; to finger the gnarled, deckle-edged pages with sweat and tears and snot and likely; to look upon it with eyes that appeared to be searching for sovereignty in a land where men appeared weak and nonexistent. To read the book would have been an art unto itself, for beneath its surface and within its pages lay text that had been constructed from the finest and most practical of hands, but to actually learn and know what it was to bring the dead back to life? What all did that entail, if not sacrifice and torment of the heart, mind and soul?

  Read it, the voice said. Learn from it.

  Fingers straying, hands trembling and body shivering from the very idea of doing just that, Odin pushed the chair away from the single desk in the room, stood, then strode across the brief space between him and the pack before crouching down and fumbling for its drawstrings.

  His fingers slipped.

  His eyes watered.

  His teeth sunk into his lower lip and would have drawn blood had he not been careful.

  You can do it. Go on—open it. Open the book and know what it is to summon the dead.

  “Can I?” he whispered. “Can I really?”

  His voice, so small in the large room, sounded something like a child muttering in the night—when, surprisingly, the monster he had seen in his closet that his parents so vicariously said was not turned out to be true. It would first peek out from behind the doors, its clawed hands retracted and its cold nose sore, then would reach around and sink its nails into the door. They would click, of course, as if playing a drum, and then they would fumble, practically, with the doorknob, of which had not been used to push the door shut, before the door came open and the creature stepped from the shadows. It would then—very, very slowly—step forward, its arms pulled back, its elbows at its ribs, its wrists limp as though gay, and toward the bed, where it would then lean forward and whisper in a very, very soft voice, Hello, because true monsters, whether one liked it or not, were the ones that could
speak, were the ones that could climb into your head and whisper things of joy and peace and tell you that everything would be just fine when, in truth, nothing was fine, for there was a monster in the room that would begin to eat you from the feet up before swallowing you within its gaping maw.

  No longer sure what to do or expect from the very thing he’d spent months of his life preparing to steal and read from its text, Odin leaned forward, tangled his fingers within the drawstrings, then carefully pulled them apart.

  He braced himself for whatever as to come.

  Half-expecting a dark energy to surge forward and strike him in the face, Odin closed his eyes and took a deep breath in preparation of being drowned in whatever sin that was to come.

  He reached forward.

  A bead of sweat ran down his lose. To his lips it fell and into his mouth it went.

  His fingers slipped.

  His digits trembled.

  Beneath his fingertips lingered the book that would change his life for the better or worst.

  Go, it whispered, its claws at his arms, its breath at his neck.

  “I will,” he whispered back.

  His hands curled around the book.

  His elbows locked up.

  His muscles flexed and, slowly, the book began to rise from the bag.

  As it came forward, revealing itself for the first time since he had stolen and stuffed it into the bag, it began to take on a malevolence all the more unreal in the face of such chilling reality. It seemed not bound in leather, blood-stained, deckle-edged or even bound in twine, and it seemed not a thing of evil that should be protected and guarded from hands they should not be in. To him, in his eyes, it seemed like nothing more than a simple book—a thing that should only be read and learned from regardless of whom or what said not to.

  Can you do it? the voice whispered, lingering ever so close to his ear. Can you, Odin?

  I can do this, he thought. I know I can.

  Cradling the book within his arms as if it were his child, he turned, crossed the distance between him and the desk, then seated himself in the single chair that adorned the room.